


Absence Makes The Heart Ache

by intotheruins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Consensual Wincest, First Time, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Season/Series 02, Wincest Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8292997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: Set in an unspecified time after 2x09: Croatoan. Sam and Dean hunt a humanoid creature that leaves people mentally compromised and barely functional. When Dean becomes a victim, Sam's left to solve the increasingly frustrating mystery of the creature's origin on his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the awesomeness that is [castielsstar](http://castielscrypt.tumblr.com)! (Thank you so much, Jess!! <3)
> 
> The great art is by [kuwlshadow](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com)! Reblog the art [HERE](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com/post/152715350863/title-absence-makes-the-heart-ache-author).

Drifting in warmth.

Never fire, or electric heat—it was always sunlight. Sam would be surrounded in it, slipping through sunbeams soft enough to let him see and bright enough to chase out every sliver of darkness. His nightmares were made of shadows and screams, but his best dreams were always filled with the day.

Unlike his nightmares, these dreams were insubstantial. Sam often felt as though he could brush them away like so much dust. He’d close his eyes and try not to focus on it, afraid that if he gave his fears any kind of life the much needed respite would turn into yet another nightmare, another burned corpse or the snarl of a monster hidden by a moonless night.

He’d close his eyes, and someone would kiss him. Usually on the forehead or the cheek, whisper-soft and careful—afraid to wake him, maybe.

Occasionally, the kisses came on his lips. Always as warm as the sunlight and twice as fierce.

And because his subconscious was a bitch, Sam always woke just as he was preparing to kiss back. Although this time, there was more than one culprit to blame for the unwanted consciousness.

“I hate you,” Sam groaned. “I hate you so much I'm not even going to kill you, I'll just let you bleed all over the Impala and watch you try to get the stains out.”

Dean threw his head back on a laugh and turned down _Night Moves_ to a more reasonable level. “Dude, you've been asleep for like seven hours. We're only an hour out of Povel; I need info. Get your geek on.”

Sam let his forehead thump against the passenger window. It was sun-warmed. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that traces of his dream still lingered around his skin.

“Sam?”

Without removing his head from the window, Sam glanced to the driver’s side. Dean was tapping his fingers against the wheel in time with the music, eyes locked on the road. He looked calm… but Sam could read the slight note of hesitation in his tone, the quick, aborted flicks of Dean’s eyes in his direction— _you okay, Sammy?_

“'m tired,” Sam mumbled. They'd slept in the car for the last two nights, which was familiar but never exactly restful.

“We're getting a motel when we get there, promise.” Dean made a left turn quickly enough that Sam's body rolled up away from the door. He had to brace himself to keep his head from smacking back against the glass as the Impala evened out. “We're just kinda low on cash, and we need a new card. So, come on, Sammy. Gimme the run-down, and then I'll let you sleep until tomorrow morning. Sound good?”

Sam heaved a sigh, but he dutifully reached down into the footwell for the research he’d left there.

“Povel, Wyoming, about six thousand people and nothing much around it for about fifty miles. There are a ton of reports of people becoming non-responsive within seconds. So, someone will be talking to a person and they just go blank. They can still function on a basic level, but the only thing anyone can get out of them is that they're 'searching' for something.”

“Huh.” Dean made another turn onto an old highway. A sign flashed by the window, telling Sam that Povel was only another thirty-three miles away. “Could be witches?”

Sam hummed acknowledgment, still scanning the articles for any additional details. “We'll have to look for signs of spellwork.”

_Night Moves_ faded out, and _Turn The Page_ began in its place. Sam smiled slightly, humming along under his breath. He didn’t mind so much when Dean broke out Bob Seger’s Greatest Hits. It was one of the few tapes in his box that wasn’t handed down from Dad—something that was entirely Dean.

Besides, the music fit somehow with their current environment. They were only an hour or so from the Montana border. The sun shone mercilessly down on cracked red clay hills and fields of long yellow grass, the endless sprawl of it only broken by faded gray concrete. Everything felt washed out, open spaces nearly baked to death with nothing to filter the sunlight—yet all the more beautiful for being on the edge of dying.

It was spacious and open and hushed, and the music wasn’t Dean’s usual hard rock, but something softer. Something that didn’t try to fill all that space, just… complimented it.

They took a turn and drifted down into flat land, so flat that even a few miles out Sam could see two white water towers standing proudly over the little town. They passed a barn-red veterinary, a McDonald's, and a gas station before coming to a cluster of motels, all butted up against each other.

“College town,” Sam explained when he saw Dean's raised eyebrow. “They get a lot of business during certain times of the year.”

They checked in to the “Top Choice Motel.” Sam called bullshit, but unfortunately it was the cheapest of the lot.

Their room smelled thickly of mildew. All the taps in the bathroom were rusted over, screaming in protest when Sam cranked on the hot water, and there was a questionable black substance ringed around the inside of the bathtub.

“At least the beds are clean?” Dean offered as he tossed his duffel on the one by the door.

“They look clean,” Sam muttered. He untucked the covers and flipped them back, peering suspiciously into the corners for bed bugs. They'd stayed in worse places, but with some things it was just better to be safe than sorry.

“We can do some hustling before we leave,” Dean offered. He flopped down onto his own bed, not bothering to hide his amusement as he watched Sam finish his inspection. “How we planning on doing this? CDC?”

“Maybe?” Satisfied, Sam flipped the covers back down. “Reporters might be better. We can still get in to talk to the doctors that way.”

“Yeah.” Dean rolled back to his feet to grab his gun out of the duffel. He tucked it into his jeans and, after a pause, slipped a small iron blade into his boot. “Just in case it is faeries,” he said when Sam raised an eyebrow in question. “Come on, let's go get some lunch. Then we can talk to the doctors.”

~

All the doctors could say was they’d “ _never seen anything like it.”_ Sam really hated cliches.

“This doesn't make any sense, man,” Dean said as they left the hospital. He twirled the keys over one finger, tossed them carelessly in the air and caught them just as easily. “I'm definitely calling witches.”

The door creaked as Sam pulled it shut. It was familiar, not even two years back on the road and it was still so damn familiar. Sometimes he wondered how he'd gone so long pretending he was normal, that he could ever be normal.

Sam traced his fingers over the handle as Dean started up the Impala. Maybe it was the Croatoan, or the terrified look in Dean's eyes when he told Sam what Dad confessed to him before he died. Maybe it just _happened,_ but at some point Sam realized he was never going back. Like Dean, he was in it for life.

Not for the first time in the last few days, Sam thought he should tell him. Dean lived on the knife edge of the belief that Sam would leave him again. He thought he hid it well, and really, he did. Sam just knew him too damn well. He knew what the lingering looks and the unnecessary touches meant. Knew that Dean spoke with his body, and Sam could read every signal and tic. He knew that the lingering looks Dean cast when he thought Sam couldn’t see, the too-tight clap of a hand to his shoulder, the hint of desperation at the edge of Dean’s smiles… it all meant the same thing.

_Don't leave. I love you._

Yet as easy as it was to hear every word Dean wouldn’t say, Sam couldn’t speak the language. He didn’t know how to move to tell Dean _I won’t leave. I love you, too_ —the words themselves weren’t enough. Dean heard them, but he couldn’t feel them.

The Impala roared to life. Dean glanced at him as he stretched an arm over the seat, twisting to check for cars before he backed out of the parking lot. When he straightened, he tossed Sam a quick grin; eyes wide and clear, a subtle shift in Sam's direction. _You okay?_

The response was the only gesture he knew in Dean’s language. A small smile, wait for Dean to look away first. _I’m fine._

“So, what names do we have?” Dean nodded towards the articles still scattered at Sam's feet.

“Um...” Sam shifted through them until he came across the first one he’d read a few days ago. “Jamie Sanders, Carl Mork, and Anna Kramer where the three that this guy interviewed. Anna Kramer's son was one of the first victims.”

“Address?”

Sam shook his head. “We'll have to find a phone book. We sticking with reporters?”

“Yeah, might as well.”

They stopped back at the motel and borrowed a phone book from the front desk. Turned out Anna Kramer lived only four blocks away, so they left the Impala and strolled down to a lot of single-wides.

They were heading into the first row when Dean asked, “Something seem off to you?”

Sam glanced at Dean. Brows pinched, narrowed eyes sweeping their surroundings: a dusty fairground across the street, empty but for a few bare stalls and oversized, empty soda cups. Only two vehicles were parked along the street, one Subaru and one truck with a horse trailer. The single-wides were in various stages of disrepair, some with nothing more than a little peeling paint, others with boarded up windows and exposed plumbing. A black cat, tail curled neatly around its feet, sat on the low end of a sagging porch step, eyes nothing more than yellow slits as it watched the brothers make their way toward 4-A.

The street was empty. When Sam strained for a sound, he couldn’t even hear the distant rumble of a car.

“I'm not saying it,” Sam muttered.

Dean grinned.

“Nope.” Sam shook his head, but Dean was already flinging an arm around Sam's shoulders. He dragged Sam in against his side, making them stumble and lurch forward before they found their footing as a single unit.

“It's quiet,” Dean whispered dramatically in Sam's ear. His breath was warm and damp, and Sam had to fight down a chuckle when it tickled against the shell of his ear. “Too quiet.”

“Oh my god.” Sam shoved at Dean's chest, jaw clenched in an attempt to keep the laughter from breaking free. “I hate you, get off me.”

Dean threw his head back on a laugh, squeezing his arm around Sam's shoulders before he allowed himself to be shoved away. The sound was clear, oddly pure in the eerie silence.

He found himself watching the arch of Dean's throat.

“I hate you, too,” Dean gasped as he swallowed the last of his laughter. “How long since the first victim was hit?”

Sam blinked, shaking his head as he tore his eyes away. “Um… couple of weeks. Why?”

Dean gestured at the general emptiness around them. “Whatever it is, I think it's escalating.”

4-A had a tiny square of overgrown grass. A few dying petunias drooped over dusty, red pots placed at the four corners of a wooden porch. The single-wide's paneling might have been white at one point, but it was hard to tell under the brown and black layer of filth. Rotting steps sagged under their feet, so close to giving way that the brothers lunged over the last three.

A dog barked when Sam knocked on the door, but otherwise there was no movement.

Sam waited a moment. The dog quieted; the resulting silence made him far too aware of his own breathing. He knocked again, pounding hard to fill the stillness. The dog whined. Sam and Dean exchanged a quick look, and without a word Dean reached out and tried the door, finding it  unlocked.

The second it swung open a little brown and white mutt barreled outside, yelping and wriggling against their legs. Sam let out a startled laugh and bent down to pet it. The mutt’s tongue lolled out, and it pushed against his hand, ratty little tail wagging rapidly.

Dean spared the dog a glance and a quick scratch behind the ears before walking inside. Sam straightened and followed, glancing back to make sure the dog was still with them.

Two people were quietly sitting on a couch just inside the door, staring listlessly at a blank TV. There was no response to the two strangers walking into their home, or to the dog bouncing up onto their laps to lick their cheeks and whine.

“That's freaky,” Dean muttered.

The younger, a boy that Sam assumed was the son mentioned in the article, tipped his head down just a little as the dog pawed at his chin. Something on the edge of awareness flickered in his gaze—his hand twitched, one finger rising towards the dog before it sank back to his knee.

“They're in there,” Sam said. He drew a finger across the line of sight of the woman, presumably Anna Kramer. Brown eyes flicked towards him briefly before drifting out of focus.

He stepped back to get a better view of them. They were fairly clean, no signs of starvation or dehydration. There were empty bowls and cups littered at their feet.

“They're eating,” Sam said, nudging Dean with his elbow and nodding towards the dishes on the floor. “But they're...”

“Zombie-fied?” Dean nodded. “Gotta be magic. Maybe feeding off the energy or something? But keeping them alive enough to keep doing it?”

“A sustainable harvest,” Sam murmured, mostly to himself. He still saw Dean shudder out of the corner of his eye.

The dog yipped, leaping so high it bounced off Sam's chest. Sam caught it when it jumped a second time, couldn't help a small smile when it frantically licked his chin.

“It's okay.” Sam tucked the dog against his chest and stroked a hand over its head. “Hey, Dean. Help me find some food.”

“Huh? You wa... oh. Yeah, okay.”

They found a massive bag of Taste of the Wild in the kitchen pantry, only half empty. Sam filled a silver dog bowl he found under the table and the dog was gulping it down before he could even finish pouring it.

“Softie,” Dean teased, even as he filled up a massive plastic bowl with water and set it on the floor.

“Uh huh,” Sam agreed easily. “Because I'm the one who saved a box full of kittens from a chupacabra in New Mexico. Oh wait.”

Dean scowled, a faint flush spreading over his cheeks. “Shut up. They were squeaking.”

Sam chuckled. “Should we... I guess we should leave them?” He waved a hand at mother and son, still staring blankly at their TV.

“Yeah, nothin' we can do,” Dean agreed with a shrug.

His tone was light, like the situation was just that easy. Except Sam saw the swift side-glance, the shuffle of his feet and the restless flex of his fingers: _I don't know what to do, so I'll pretend everything's fine._

They left the disturbing scene behind, door open a crack in case the dog needed to escape.

When they reached the motel, Sam looked at Dean and said, “Beer?”

“Beer.” Dean gave a firm nod. “Lots and lots of beer.”

~

There were two gas stations on the north end of town, but only one carried alcohol. Sam pushed his way through a second set of doors and into a walk-in fridge to get their beer while Dean paid for half a tank of gas. He lingered a moment over whether to get Bud or Corona. The Bud won out—it was cheaper, and Dean didn’t really give a shit, so long as it gave him a solid buzz.

Six-pack in hand, Sam re-entered the main part of the station and found Dean in the candy aisle, staring thoughtfully at a row of Hostess sweets.

“Got our beer,” Sam said. “Do you really need more sugar?”

When he didn't get an immediate reply, Sam elbowed Dean in the side. “Dean? Come on, I was kidding. I know you're hopelessly addicted to sugar.”

Dean didn't move. He had one hand in his pocket, the other frozen midway to a packet of Twinkies. When Sam nudged Dean a second time, he didn’t look over, didn't even appear to be aware that Sam was there.

“Dean?” Sam stepped in closer, leaning to the side to catch his brother's gaze.

There was nothing in his eyes. No awareness, no sign of conflicted feelings over Twinkies vs. Ding Dongs. No _Dean._

It was _here._

Counting the bored guy at the register, there were only three people in the station. Sam set down the beer and went for his gun anyway. Didn’t pull it out, just curled a hand around the familiar, comforting grip as he scanned his surroundings.

Register-guy was blowing bubbles with his gum. An old woman clutched a paisley purse to her chest as she shuffled towards the register. At the far end of the aisle, a young woman chatted into the phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder as she pulled a packet of peach rings from the shelf.

Not them, none of them—fuck, where the hell was it?

The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck rose. Tingles of awareness shot down to nest in the base of his spine, tugging at his gut with a deep, instinctual fear. Sam whirled, yanking the gun from his waistband.

Nothing.

“Dean. Dean!” Sam punched him in the shoulder. Dean swayed with the movement and let his hand fall to his side.

An abrupt tightening around his temples made Sam freeze. There was none of the pain that always came with his abilities, yet the sensation of being touched in a way that was entirely non-physical felt much like the surge of power before a vision. Hesitantly, still scanning his surroundings, Sam tried to reach back.

Dean was so afraid of Sam’s abilities that he’d prevented any practice with them. Still, Sam managed to touch the coil of power with his mind. It latched onto him immediately, curling around his consciousness in a strange kind of embrace, so cold that he physically shuddered. It tightened… and then abruptly released, hovering around him as though confused.

Then it drew away completely. Sam was left gasping, fingers stiff and aching around the gun’s grip.

Shaking himself, Sam shoved the gun back into his jeans and forced his fingers to loosen. He whirled Dean around, wincing at the crack his palm made when it connected with Dean’s cheek and ignoring the confused glance from the guy at the register.

His brother blinked once and murmured something under his breath.

“Shit.” Sam ran a hand over his face, shutting his eyes briefly to the situation before he grabbed Dean’s wrist and began to tug him towards the exit.

“‘S gone,” Dean mumbled. “I gotta… ‘s all gone, Sammy. Gotta find it.”

“Okay, sure Dean.” Sam dug the car keys out of Dean’s coat pocket, trying his damndest to keep the shaking out of his voice. “We’ll find it.”

Getting Dean back to the motel was surprisingly easy. He moved well enough, got into the passenger seat on his own once Sam opened the door, followed him into the motel room without prompting, and let Sam take the gun and knife off him. Sam had to stop once while he was getting Dean settled on the bed, had to sink down onto the edge and just breathe.

He hid his face in his hands, so he didn’t have to see the blankness in those too-familiar green eyes.

A few deep breaths and Sam surged to his feet. This wasn’t a ghost or some kind of fae creature—none of the signs were right. Had to be witches. Keeping his eyes downcast, Sam pulled Dad’s journal from Dean’s inner coat pocket. He’d been making notes for over a year now, allowing him to skip straight to the few scattered entries John had made on witches he’d hunted over the years.

Two cases of power-hunger and one love potion gone wrong. Not exactly helpful.

He was heading out to grab the laptop he’d left in the trunk when the presence returned, curling almost tentatively around his mind. The sickening dread of _turnaroundnow_ punched him in the gut and made him whirl, gun already in his hand.

Aside from the Impala and the desk clerk’s little Ford Escort, the parking lot was empty. The sun had set while Sam got Dean situated. It wasn’t quite dark, but there were no street lights in the little town, leaving Sam with only the fading day and the weak light of a bare bulb over the office door. Nowhere to hide in the open space, but the shadows felt too long and the presence caressing his mind was growing stronger.

Cautiously, Sam reached out to it again, nudging at the frigid sense of power. When it didn’t attempt to tighten as it had before, he lowered his gun and tried focusing on actively touching it back.

A humanoid shape stepped in front of him, appearing as though it had simply walked through a door. One step took it directly into Sam’s personal space.

“Shit!” Sam lunged back, caught his heel on the Impala’s front tire. He got off a single shot that struck the creature right in the chest before he started to fall… and then he was being pulled upright by pale, long-fingered hands wrapping carefully around his biceps.

The creature steadied him. It left its hands in place, and Sam felt them both on his skin and in his mind as the presence grew—less like a grip now, and more like an embrace.

It looked somewhat human. Naked, with nothing between its legs but smooth flesh. Its skin was near-white, with the faintest tinge of blue, and there was no sign of damage where the bullet had struck—no sign of the bullet at all. It had limp, long black hair, clustered in thick strands like it was wet, and strange, inverted eyes. Lavender pupils, pitch black irises. No whites, just that void-like black, and when it leaned in close the pupils flared with a soft light that coincided with an abrupt _warming_ of the power within Sam’s mind.

“Sam,” it said, voice genderless and soft.

Sam flinched back. The name came with a deeper probing into his mind. He grappled with it, tried to force it out, but only succeeded in keeping it from delving further.

“Touch back,” the creature said. It frowned, then shook its head. “You, you touch back. Forgive. Still learning… sound words.”

“You mean this?” Sam tried again to push it out. The effort was met with more warmth and a kind of pulsing.

Sam had the distinct and bizarre impression that it was pleased.

“Immune.” The creature ran its hands up to Sam’s shoulders, thumbs sweeping up over the bare skin of his throat. Sam’s finger flexed over the trigger. “Can touch your… emotions. Not take.”

Wonderful, one more side effect of his freaky psychic powers.

“What do you want?” Sam asked slowly. He tried cautiously holding the still-warming power, hoping that maybe the connection went two ways. “To kill me?”

His finger twitched again. The creature’s eyes flicked to the gun, but it didn’t even lurch back when Sam shot it a second time. It was like the bullet just ceased to exist as it touched its skin, melting away into nothing.

It leaned closer and Sam nearly dropped the gun in his shock. Its breath was warm and clean where it ghosted over Sam’s cheeks.

“Not kill,” the creature said firmly. “Sam. Want… you to feel. Emotion. For me.”

One hand slid around Sam’s neck and into his hair, gently cupping his head.

Then it kissed him.

Its mouth was thin and lukewarm. The power in his mind flared hot, expanding, and Sam felt as though he were physically covered in it. He shouted and tried to lunge away, but the creature’s grip was solid—it didn’t budge even when Sam braced against its chest and shoved.

_Sam._

The loneliness struck Sam with a force that made him cry out. It was pure, so intense that the cry turned to a sob as Sam briefly felt it as his own. The presence wrapped around him in a tight frenzy, as though trying to protect him from it. Fingers stroked through Sam’s hair while the other hand slid down into the small of his back, pressing until Sam was forced to stumble closer. He twisted, trying to break the weaker grip, only it seemed the creature didn’t have a weaker grip. It was just as stone-solid as before, even as it yielded just enough to keep Sam from hurting himself.

_Sh. Open._

The creature’s tongue swiped across his lips and Sam clamped his mouth shut, but its tongue apparently possessed the same strength. It pried open his lips and slithered in past his teeth, thin and far longer than any human. It twined around his own tongue, coiled like a snake and briefly too-tight, but it loosened the moment he thought it. The tongue slipped down into his throat and made him gag, and again it withdrew, teasing instead at his palette.

When the creature withdrew, the presence in his mind cooled. Sam shoved at it, physically and mentally, snarling when it took his wrists and guided them gently behind his back. The gun fell with a clatter to the pavement.

“Let go!”

“Shhh, feel good,” the creature murmured. It stroked Sam's hair, carding its thin fingers carefully through the locks. “Sh.”

The power was a warm, heart-like beat inside him now. _Content_ , he thought. Shuddering, Sam made himself go limp and let the creature hold him up, resisting the urge to tug his hands free, so he could wipe at his mouth.

“Fix Dean,” Sam demanded. Then, more softly. “Please?”

He stroked at the presence, coaxing. The creature smiled. It was eerie, almost sad; its power pulsed and stroked him back.

“Cannot do. His memories, so full. Full of emotion. Need them. I… love you like he does. Make you my… my mate, give so much love. You give it back, I don't need... other memories. That make you happy?”

Sam didn't get a chance to respond. It released him and backed into nothing so fast he didn't even see it move. The power pulsed and snapped, and Sam was alone.

He stood frozen for a moment before both hands flew to his mouth, scrubbing uselessly at the phantom sensation of the creature’s lips lingering there. He bent to pick up the gun, one hand still plastered over his mouth.

Dean was sitting up when Sam came back inside. He looked confused, like he'd stopped mid-action and couldn't remember why he'd been moving in the first place. Sam shuddered hard, but he couldn't think about his near miss right now. He had to make sure Dean was okay. He had to find a way to protect them both.

“Dean?” Sam bent down and braced his hands on Dean's solid shoulders. Dean looked up, but his green eyes were vacant. “Hey. Come on, let's lay back down.”

Dean went easily when Sam coaxed him. He folded his hands on his stomach, like he was just resting and not lost somewhere in his mind.

“Can't find it,” Dean murmured sadly. “Can't find it, Sammy. It's all gone.”

Sam squeezed his eyes closed. They burned anyway, moisture threatening at the corners. “It's okay, Dean. You keep looking, you'll find it.”

The question was, looking for what? The creature said it had Dean's memories. Sam frowned as he sank down on his own bed. It couldn't have all of his memories, Dean still knew him, but it also said emotion. Full of emotion.

Sam braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, watching as Dean's eyes slipped shut. Maybe it only took specific memories. If it was feeding off of them, maybe only the memories with the strongest emotions would do.

“But then why make you like this?” Sam murmured. “What's the p—”

Sam's eyes widened. He surged to his feet and put a hand on Dean's knee, watched his eyes flicker beneath his closed lids. If the creature fed on emotion, then locking its victims inside their own minds—forcing them to search for what had been taken—might generate more emotion for it to feed on.

“Okay.” Sam squeezed Dean's knee before going to get his laptop from the table. “Okay. That's something.”

~

Twenty-four hours and far too many cups of coffee later, Sam was forced to accept that the information might in fact be nothing.

There were many creatures that fed on emotion; Sirens, certain types of Fae. Sam even found references to a Pied Piper type monster that stole memory. The problem was that none of them fit the profile. Sirens fed specifically on love. Fae sometimes took memory, but they took all memory. The Pied Piper only went after children.

He didn’t bother trying to research witches. Not when there wasn’t any question in his mind that this thing wasn’t human.

With a tired sigh, Sam leaned back in his chair and turned to look at Dean.

It had been a surreal kind of disturbing, watching Dean function throughout the night. When he had to use the bathroom, he would. He ate the cheap cheeseburgers Sam brought him for dinner, and took a shower about an hour ago without prompting. Otherwise he simply lay there, staring with vacant eyes at the white stucco ceiling.

Twice, he’d mumbled Sam’s name in a voice so small it made him ache.

Dean sat up slowly. Sam watched him stand and wander towards the bathroom. He left the door open as he started to undo his fly.

Sam had seen it before—hell, he’d seen Dean entirely naked before—but this time Dean wasn’t aware of his actions. In a sudden fit of second-hand embarrassment, Sam turned away.

“Maybe it is witches,” Sam muttered aloud, hoping to distract himself. “Maybe they summoned the thing.”

He almost laughed at himself. It was highly unlikely that level of power could be leashed, but since he had nothing else to go on, he let himself think through the possibilities. There would have to be a hex bag, at least. He’d searched the room around midnight and found nothing. No sulfur either, so it wasn’t a demon.

Dean came back into the room. He paused beside the bed, a slight frown creasing his brow as he stared down at it.

“It’s gone,” Dean whispered. “Something happened…” He slowly lifted a finger and pointed to the bed. “There. Gotta find it, Sammy.”

Dean’s hand fell to his side. Sam watched him lay down, made sure he was settled before he bolted out the door.

The parking lot was still disturbingly empty, only the familiar presence of the Impala providing any kind of comfort. Sam headed towards it, bracing his hands against sun-warmed metal. Exhaustion made his head droop between his arms, his eyes slipping closed against the warm red light of the setting sun.

Sam felt the presence surge into him—frigid as it entered, but warming almost instantly. He spun around just in time for hands to slide down his arms, taking his wrists in a solid grip and tugging them gently behind his back.

“Brought a gift,” it said softly. Its lips twisted into something like a smile—like it was really trying, and it made Sam frown. “Looked into their memories. Learned.”

“Learned wh—“

The creature kissed him.

Last time, it hadn’t been so much a kiss as an awkward press of mouths. Now, the creature sucked Sam’s lower lip between its own. It nipped, too softly to cause any pain, and laved at the spot with its long tongue. It wedged inside when Sam tried to press his lips closed and flicked behind his teeth, along his palate. Kissing him like a human.

The tongue tickled the back of his throat. Sam choked. It withdrew, twining like a snake around his own tongue instead. Sam jerked, trying to tear his head back or to the side, anything that would get him away. The creature’s grip didn’t budge, as immobile as though stone had formed around Sam’s wrists.

He prodded at the presence. It hadn’t been physical, not until recently… it didn’t understand physical limitation, and therefore it had none.

How the hell was he supposed to beat something like that?

Sam pushed in further, desperate for any scrap of information that might help. An overwhelming sense of a different space of existence flooded him, a realm outside the physical that his mind was incapable of comprehending. There again was the loneliness, as endless as the between-space it had once been a part of because it was meant to be part of a pair. Its Other was gone.

They were all gone.

For just a moment, Sam mourned with it, too deep in the presence now to escape the depth of its grief. He sensed a kind of relief as it clung to him, but it was nothing more than a band-aid on a gaping gut wound.

The creature held him closer in something resembling a hug as it tilted its head to better fit their mouths together. Trying, trying so hard to give Sam gifts that it didn't understand he wouldn't take.

And then it stepped back, tongue flicking over his bottom lip as it withdrew. Sam flinched, recoiling as much as possible with the hands still wrapped around his wrists.

“Strong emotion,” the creature purred, caressing his face with careful fingertips. “Good. A good gift.”

It released Sam's hands, but before he could move it had stepped back and into nothing.

Sam stood still for a moment, staring at the place it had been. Then he whirled around and punched the car door. It left a sting in his knuckles that he focused on, clenching his fist in an attempt to keep it there as he walked back to the room.

Dean was still lying there when he opened the door. Just staring at the ceiling, eyes open and utterly blank.

“It's alone,” Sam said. He flexed his sore hand, then curled it over Dean's arm. “Whatever the hell it is, it's completely alone. I got snatches of it, I think it used to feed with its own kind. It's doing this to survive. I don't think...” Sam sighed and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “I don't think it knows it's doing anything wrong.”

Slowly, Dean turned his head towards Sam. His eyes were glassy, but Sam thought he saw a spark of awareness in them.

“I wasn't going to leave again, you know,” Sam blurted. “I'm not going back to Stanford. I'm not... I'm not leaving you. I _won't leave you._ ”

Sam climbed onto the bed, sliding his hand to Dean’s chest instead, so he could curl his fist into his t-shirt. He felt like he was three years old, leaning on big brother for comfort... only big brother wasn't there. It was up to _him_ to save Dean.

He fell asleep with his hand still on Dean's chest and his face buried in Dean's shoulder.

~

Over the next few days, the internet proved to be worthless.

Sam wasn’t surprised. Nothing about the sensations he’d picked from the creature’s mental presence suggested that it had been in their world before. Still, he kept digging, searching for creatures that lived in between-dimensions; that required strong emotion as their food; that were powerful enough to create physical forms.

The web coughed up types of fae that weren’t entirely physical, various monsters that fed on specific emotions… the last search even produced an obscure reference to angels and vessels.

Nothing useful. No information that would give him a way— _any way_ —to fight back.

It continued to return every twenty-four hours. Each time it took Sam's wrists in a firm but comfortable grip, and each time it had gained a little more skill. It found every trick, every sensitive place that would have made Sam sigh with contentment had the attention been consensual.

Though it never did anything else, it always had to be inside him somehow. Not just the presence in his mind, but physically inside him. The more Sam delved into the power of its presence, the more he sensed that this was its only limitation. It couldn’t connect as it had in its former state because human minds weren’t compatible, so it had to boost the connection with something that was part of this world. Had Sam been normal, and not a psychic freak, it was unlikely the creature would have been able to connect with him at all.

Sometimes, Sam saw flashes of memory it had taken from others. The young man from the trailer, laughing in delight as his new puppy sprang up to greet him; himself as a teenager, passed out in a sweaty mess on a random motel bed; a vague form, insubstantial and shifting, long tendrils reaching out to wrap around an answering set.

The last one caused an emotion so strong that there were tears running down his cheeks. He hated that he felt any sympathy for this thing that wouldn't stop forcing him, but he wasn’t sure it even had a concept of consent. It only seemed pleased when Sam's anger surged—cooed at him when he struggled against its grip, shushed him when he fought back tears, praised him and his “gifts” when he screamed at it to let him go.

He started trying all the basics; salt, iron, bronze, sliced at its throat with a machete. The blade went through like there was nothing there—didn’t leave so much as a scratch.

He searched every corner of the internet, chased any possible lead despite knowing it was useless. He made notes of his observations. When he could no longer keep his eyes open, he slept behind Dean, one hand curled into his shirt and his face buried against his back.

On the sixth day, Sam staggered into the library with a coffee clutched in one hand and a flask in the other. The smell of dust was thick in the air, flecks of it floating lazily through patches of sun streaming in from the picture windows. Other than the librarian sitting behind the counter, the building was empty. Only the rapid tap of the librarian’s fingers over her keyboard broke the silence, and Sam found himself clinging to the sound as he set flask and coffee down on a table in the corner.

This was useless. He knew it was useless, yet he spent the next five hours alternately flipping through heavy old books on mythology and staring out the window at the setting sun. Watching the deep reds and golds of evening spread like stains over the horizon while feeling the deep sense of dread in his stomach spread with them.

Only unlike the daylight, Sam’s fears didn’t fade away.

The presence slipped into his mind just as Sam was preparing to leave; the library closed in twenty minutes. It was always warm now, though it was nothing like the warmth of his dreams. It reminded him of a space heater, cranked just a bit too high. Better than the chill by far, but still not quite right.

Before the creature put its hands on him, Sam twisted in his chair and spun the cap from his flask.

The holy water struck it right in the eyes. It didn’t so much as blink.

“You give funny gifts,” it said.

The presence shuddered in a way that might have been laughter. Sam slumped in his seat, head bowed and flask falling from his limp hand. He watched the remaining water slowly spread through the thin, red carpet, and didn’t bother fighting when the creature gently pulled him upright.

At least it wasn’t physically hurting him. He repeated that to himself as it turned him around, guided his wrists behind his back and held them in one careful hand.

At least it was keeping its promise—no one else in the town had become a victim.

Sam closed his eyes. When it kissed him, Sam imagined that it was someone else. Sarah, he decided. They had left Sarah alive and well; the memory of kissing her didn’t come attached to memories of death. His hands were behind his back because they were playing a game. A game he could stop at any time.

The hand around his wrists tightened just a fraction. Not enough to hurt, more like a warning… and suddenly Sam was sixteen and pinned face down in the dew-soaked grass of a field in Oregon, Dean’s strong hands wrapped around his wrists. Dean laughing as Sam struggled and cursed to hide the laughter bubbling in his chest. Dean rolling him over and tucking him in against his chest, muffling his laughter in Sam’s hair, not even giving his little brother shit for losing because they were both too stupidly amused with the spar-session turned playfight.

It was Dean pulling Sam closer and keeping him pinned because Sam could never feel anything but safe in his hands.

Sam’s eyes flew open at the same instant the creature’s presence tightened in his mind, writhing in a strange kind of excitement at the sudden surge of emotion. It pressed closer to him, free hand sliding around to cup the back of his neck in exactly the same way Sam had seen Dean do to women so many times.

Then it slid down his spine to cup curiously over his ass.

Sam jerked, eyes widening as the creature pulled back.

“More than one place to be inside,” the creature murmured, surprised. It traced fingers over the seam of Sam’s jeans, ignoring the way he began to struggle in earnest.

“No!” Sam snarled.

He wrenched his shoulder in an attempt to twist free—the creature winced and removed its hand, placing it instead over one of Sam’s shoulders to stop his struggling.

“Don’t—” Sam shuddered and ducked his head. “Don’t do it.”

He reached out to the presence, tried to convey his dread in a way it might understand. It released Sam’s shoulder and pressed fingertips to his chin instead, encouraging him to lift his head. Its eyes were wide, the hint of a smile teasing at the corners of its lips.

“Strong emotion,” it said softly. “Good. A good gift. I will… make you feel…” it frowned. The presence surged over Sam’s mind—it wasn’t the first time it had searched for words there. “More. _Better._ Make you feel better. But.” It let go of Sam’s shoulder and patted his ass, which was so surreal that it almost succeeded in making Sam laugh. “I think you must… clean. Clean first.”

When it stepped back into nothing, Sam sagged against the table and buried his face in shaking hands.

“Sir?”

Sam jumped, softly cursed at himself and let his hands fall. The librarian was standing there with an apologetic look on her round face.

“We’re closing,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Sam drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, sorry. Lack of sleep. I’ll get out of your hair.”

~

Dean was coming out of the bathroom when Sam returned to the motel. He watched Dean walk to the bed and then stop to stare down at it, frowning for just a second before he slipped away again.

Whatever happened there, whatever piece of memory the creature had taken, it seemed that it was the most important. That was at least the sixth time Sam had seen Dean do that.

“I miss you,” Sam said quietly as he watched Dean lay back down. It wasn’t as if Dean could hear him, couldn’t give him shit for being sentimental.

Except that when no snarky remark came, no “ _Aw, Samantha, I didn’t know you cared_ ” coupled with the body language that would be the more genuine reply… Sam couldn’t stand it.

Climbing onto the bed, Sam rolled Dean onto his side and lay down behind him like he had every other night. He buried his face in Dean’s neck and breathed him in; leather, gun oil, the cheap, too-spicy cologne Dean insisted on buying because he refused to “waste” money on anything better.

Slowly, almost cautiously, Sam slipped an arm around Dean’s waist. He was warm and solid, and with his face turned away Sam could pretend he was just asleep.

He could pretend his lips brushing against the back of Dean’s neck was an accident, too.

~

Sam spent the next day with a sense of panic steadily growing in his chest.

He had maybe two hours to try something, only he couldn't _think_ of anything. There was nothing on this creature, no scrap of lore he could use against it—anything he’d gleaned from the creature’s awareness didn’t point towards any weaknesses.

Sam slammed the laptop closed. He didn’t know why he was even bothering. He knew there was nothing there, he was just…

“ _I think you must… clean.”_

Snarling, Sam surged to his feet. He snatched up the pen and notepad by the phone on the nightstand and started scribbling notes.

It was alone, the rest of its kind was dead. Or whatever counted as dead for something that didn’t use to be physical.

As far as he could tell, it used to feed with its own kind. It fed on humans now to survive.

Emotion was its food. It took memories full of strong emotions and left the victims in a state of mind that allowed it to return for more emotion.

It fed off Sam’s reactions to it. Didn’t seem to differentiate between good and bad.

Sam stared until his eyes began to burn. Then he threw the pen and pad at the wall.

Fire was the only thing he hadn’t tried. It gave him nothing more than a weak stirring of hope, but he dug a lighter from his pocket and took a can of air freshener from the bathroom anyway. He positioned himself between the door and Dean’s bed, and waited.

The old clock on the wall ticked. Sam counted the seconds, even if it did nothing to ease the knots in his gut.

“You cleaned?”

Quick click of the lighter, hiss of the spray-can. Fire erupted over the creature’s body and rolled off like a harmless splash of water.

Sam screamed. He threw the lighter and can at the creature. It cocked its head as the items bounced off its chest, followed their descent with its strange, inverted eyes until it appeared to lose interest and returned its gaze to Sam.

“Very strange gifts,” it murmured. “Didn’t clean. You. You didn’t clean.’

Sam didn’t even bother glaring at it. He didn’t step back or try to fight the hands that guided his arms behind his back, unnaturally strong fingers taking both wrists in its grip yet again.

“I will do it,” the creature said suddenly. “Should do it, take care of you.”

There was something almost freeing about accepting that he was helpless. It let him go limp in the creature’s grip as it reached around behind him. Sam stared resolutely at Dean’s blank expression as two fingers pressed against the small of his back—less invasive than he’d been expecting. He hated that he was grateful for that.

A cool sensation spread through his insides, like the first burst of icy flavor when he bit into a mint. Sam shuddered. The presence in his mind—now disturbingly familiar—burrowed in deep, pulsing with a new kind of warmth. More like fire. A fire that was much too close.

“Ahh,” it said. “See how to do this.”

The creature stroked a finger over Sam’s jaw. Sam flinched away and kept his eyes on Dean as it guided him around to the other bed.

He kept his eyes on Dean when he was lowered face-down into the pillows.

He kept his eyes on Dean even when, for a brief moment, he wanted to turn his face into musty fabric in the hopes that he might choke himself into unconsciousness.

Hands slid under Sam's waist and loosened his fly, but didn't pull his pants down. Well, at least he wasn't going to be _exposed_ while he was violated.

Sam continued to watch Dean when he felt the wet slide of the creature's tongue wriggling under his waistline. Dean was rolling slowly onto his side, empty eyes meeting Sam’s—though there wasn’t a hint of him close to the surface. Most of Sam was relieved, but a part of him wanted to swear, to leap across the small space between their beds and shake him until he jolted into awareness. Even if it meant he _saw._

The first slick rub of the tongue over his hole made Sam spasm. He tried to draw his legs up in some useless attempt to protect himself, but the creature put its free hand on Sam's lower back and pressed him down. Even though it was just saliva slicking the way, Sam knew without a doubt that the muscle was strong enough—and thin enough—to go in easily.

After a few passes around the rim, wetting it as much as possible, the creature began to ease its way inside. It didn't hurt, only stung a little with the lack of real lube. Sam barely noticed. He tightened briefly, sick to his stomach and mumbling “no” under harsh breathing, twisting away from Dean only to turn sharply back when that made it worse.

So he resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes closed, kept them locked on Dean’s unresponsive face.

It didn't take long for the creature to find his prostate. Sam jumped at the first gentle prod against the sensitive gland. He wasn't unfamiliar with the sensation—Jess had stimulated it a few times when they were feeling frisky, and Sam always liked it. He hated that he liked it now, couldn't help but shudder as the sensation zinged up his spine, sending pleasure signals pooling into his cock. _Fuck_ , he didn't want to get hard for this thing, because of it. He bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to distract himself.

Distantly, he could feel himself beginning to shake. His hands were clenched into fists so tight that they ached.

The presence felt as though it were thrashing. Sam caught glimpses of it—new sensations, new emotions, new _pleasures_ its kind hadn’t been capable of experiencing all rushing into it at once, overwhelming… yet it thrust more deeply into his mind for more. Its tongue spasmed and prodded over his prostate relentlessly until Sam started to scream.

_Yes, yes. Make you feel good, make you drown in pleasure. Feel good, mate, let me feel you feel good._

The tongue started undulating, stroking at his insides without letting up on his prostate.

“Don't,” Sam sobbed. He buried his face in the pillow, couldn't look at Dean anymore. “Don't make me come. Please. Just stop.”

_Come? This feels better? I make you come. Good gift. Yes, will make you. Think… think love while you do it. Good… better gift._

Sam started to shake his head again, but then he did it. He twisted his head to the side, opened his eyes and locked them on Dean. Filled his mind with Dean _Dean Dean, I love you, De,_ and when he came from the stimulation he let himself say his brother's name aloud.

If it fed the creature more, it would take longer for it to come back. He comforted himself with that thought as it cooed and stroked his hair and eased its tongue out of his ass.

“Good,” the creature sighed. “Beautiful mate.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Sam choked out.

It sighed again, sounding so happy it made Sam sicker than he already was. It let go of his wrists, and by the time Sam lurched onto his back it was gone.

There was a mess in his boxers, cooling and sticky against his skin. Slowly, Sam got up and shucked his clothes right there, all of them. He cleaned himself off with sharp, mechanical motions with some tissues from the nightstand, and pulled on a pair of new boxers from his duffel.

Then he crawled onto the bed behind his brother, buried his face between Dean's shoulder blades, and let himself cry.

~

When Sam woke, he was in Dean’s arms, tucked in tight against his chest. He was asleep. Sam wondered for a moment if his dreams were filled with the search for his memories. He hoped they weren't, hoped Dean got at least a little rest there.

Craning his head around without dislodging Dean, Sam glanced out the window to determine the time. The sun was just coming up, bright morning sunlight spilling through the thin, faded yellow curtains. He shut his eyes against it, let the warmth wash over him and imagined it was his dream. It was safe there. _He_ was safe there.

He settled back against the pillow, but didn’t open his eyes. His nose nudged Dean’s jaw. He rubbed himself there, shuddering as the burn of days-old stubble sank into his skin. Blindly he nudged downward, drifting in warmth and dark, this didn’t have to be real…

He opened his mouth against Dean’s skin, let his tongue dart out just once to feel the roughness. Pressed a little harder, wanting to burn the sensitive skin of his lips, so he’d remember that last touch. Then he drew away, couldn't, _shouldn’t,_ go further with Dean out of—

Sam sat bolt upright. Touched a finger to his mouth.

The creature never let him be in any real pain.

Quickly, Sam cast his eyes around until he found the digital clock on the nightstand. Glaring red numbers told him it was 7:30 a.m. The creature had come around... had it been six? Seven? No matter what, it would be a while before it came to him again, possibly longer since he'd given it an extra large meal. That gave him time to think.

He thought as he got dressed. He thought while he sat in the McDonald's drive-thru and brought back sausage and eggs biscuits, which were Dean's favorite. He thought as he forced himself to eat one and watched Dean eat both of his with none of his usual enthusiasm.

It couldn't just be pain. If he hurt himself now, he suspected nothing would happen. The creature only seemed able to fully connect to Sam when it was... inside him, in some manner.

Sam choked on the bite he'd just tried to swallow. He spat it out fiercely into the trash can, and gave Dean the last of the biscuit. Dean accepted it silently.

That was his best shot. He had to hurt himself, and probably pretty badly, while it was in him.

Sam closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply, but that only seemed to make the sickness in his stomach writhe. Finally, he just lunged into the bathroom and vomited what little he'd eaten, wincing as it burned his throat and coated his tongue.

“S-Sam?”

He jerked upright to find Dean standing in the doorway. His eyes were only partially vacant, and they were trained on Sam's face. Confused. Worried.

“I'm okay,” Sam managed. His voice was rough, almost hoarse. “You keep looking, Dean.”

“You.” Dean frowned. Shook his head. “It took you, Sammy. Why can't I find you?”

He turned away just as fury slammed hot and wild into Sam's eyes.

Sam flushed the toilet, rinsed out his mouth, and dug a knife out of his duffel. It wasn't too long, maybe three inches—more a tool than a weapon. He held it loosely in his palm as he considered the possibilities. Stabbing himself anywhere would hurt, but he had to make sure not to slice open the wrong vein, and he needed a spot that would preferably hurt a whole hell of a lot. His options were going to be pretty limited once the creature had a hold of his wrists.

Maybe if he went to it. Initiated the contact. The very thought made him want to hurl all over again, but he clamped down tightly on the nausea.

His hand, he decided. He could stab right through it, twist the blade to spread the bones and tendons. He didn't want to think about how much that was going to hurt, but he knew he could do it. He just really, really hoped he was right.

Sam spent the day perched on the edge of the bed with the knife in his hand, frequently casting his gaze to Dean. His brother said _I love you, I won’t leave you_ with solid eye contact and a hand on his shoulder. If Sam did the same, would it get through to Dean? He always seemed to mess up the language, slip on just that one word that gave the whole sentence a new meaning. The scenario played out in his mind over and over, frustrating but also comforting.

It meant he didn’t have to think about the clawing pain in his stomach, or the strange, crawling sensation under his skin, as though there were a hundred spiders skittering just beneath the surface.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know,” Sam muttered suddenly. “Not like Dad did. But you still do. Sometimes I want to punch your stupid mouth... but damn it, Dean, I love you and I'm not leaving you again. So when I kill that thing, you better grab hold of those memories, and you _better fucking come back to me._ ”

He stayed there, staring at Dean, until the creature’s power slipped into his mind.

This time, Sam forced himself to rise and go to the creature on his own, hand curled tight around the blade’s grip. He shut his eyes tight and kissed it clumsily, ignoring the approving coos it made. It didn't try to take his wrists this time, just stroked Sam's hair and neck, tongue snaking as deep into Sam as it could get without choking him.

He waited until he felt the presence burrowing deeper into his mind to stab the blade into the center of his hand.

For half a second, nothing happened. Then the creature shrieked, an awful, grating sound that was so loud inside Sam’s head that he hardly felt the pain searing through his hand. He shook his head sharply, gritting his teeth as he tried to tear his consciousness away from it. He bit down on its tongue and this time he was able to hold it, felt it give a little beneath his teeth. A snarl tore out of his throat, part anger and part pain—he twisted the knife. The snarl twisted into a scream, but the creature's answering wail was louder, higher, so intense that the windows rattled.

Sam twisted the knife again and opened his eyes. There were tears blurring his vision, but he could still see the shock on the creature's face, eyes wide like it was trying to talk to Sam but had lost the ability. It was only then that he realized he could no longer feel its presence. It was also thrashing, trying in vain to pull its tongue away. Sam bit harder. He pulled the knife out, and stabbed a second time.

His ears rang with the sound the creature released. The tongue tore beneath his teeth. His knees gave out, and for what could have been a moment or a whole lot longer Sam was deaf and blind, though he didn’t understand why he couldn’t see until a heavy hand was wiping thick, black blood from his face.

There was still blood and a piece of tongue in his mouth. Sam spat it out, tried to call Dean’s name, but could only feel it formed in his throat—and then his ears began to ring as sound came back to him.

Dean was kneeling over him, no longer touching now that Sam's eyes were clear. The knife was in his hand, and Sam watched, dazed, as Dean whirled around and began to stab the prone body of the creature again and again, spraying more of that thick blood over his chest and arms.

“Dean.” The ringing was quieting. He could hear Dean's heavy breathing.

Dean stabbed it one more time, and left the knife buried in its chest.

Slowly, Sam climbed to his feet. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the water to rinse his face, only to shout in surprise when the heat seared over his injured hand.

“Hey.” Dean crowded into the bathroom. He was panting, chest heaving with the effort of his breaths. He lifted his hands, but didn't move any closer. “Can I... is it okay for me to touch you?”

Sam shut his eyes. “You saw?”

So much for Dean being unaware.

“Yeah. I saw it, Sammy. Just couldn’t _do_ anything. Can I touch you?”

“Yeah,” Sam said easily. Yes, please, he needed to remember how to breathe.

Dean hugged him. It surprised Sam a little, but he leaned into it without question, buried his face in Dean's throat even though it just smeared more blood around, and let Dean guide him down to sit on the toilet seat.

“I don't think I did any permanent damage,” Sam said as Dean carefully cupped his hand. “Should be fine if I don't use it for a while.”

Dean nodded once, sharply. He cleaned Sam's hand—water and then alcohol to kill anything that even thought about trying to grow there—then wrapped it up and set it down on Sam's thigh. Gently, he cleaned Sam's face with a warm towel and stripped them both of their shirts to wipe up the last of the blood on their skin.

“Dean,” Sam murmured while Dean stuffed the shirts into the trash. “Do you remember me...?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He lifted a finger and brushed it over his stubble. “I was still half asleep, but yeah. And I felt you, here.” Dean brushed the same finger over his throat. “I wanted to tell you yes, so you'd know it was okay.”

Sam felt like he'd been stabbed all over again. He couldn't believe how easily Dean said the words, so he watched as Dean straightened and met his eyes, solid and reassuring. A hand came down on his shoulder as Dean ducked his head, leaning in close. _I love you. I’m not leaving._

“Okay because I needed it, or because you did?”

Dean shrugged. “Both.”

After everything that had happened in the last week, all Sam could manage for that revelation was a soft, “Huh.”

After a pause to see if he would speak any more, Dean led him back out to the bed. He coaxed him out of his jeans before pushing Sam down and wrapping him up in a blanket, didn’t move until Sam settled into the pillows. Only then did he get to work wrapping up the body in a sheet and dumping it in the trunk for burning later. He stomped around the room wiping up both the creature’s and Sam’s blood where he could, throwing towels over the stains in the rug where he couldn't.

Somewhere along the line, Sam fell asleep. When he woke, Dean was pressed chest to chest with him under the blanket, stripped down to just his boxers.

“This okay?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded. Then he shook his head, and opened his mouth against Dean's jaw.

“Can I?” he mumbled against Dean's skin. When Dean only nodded Sam repeated the question, and Dean hissed, “Yes!” and wrapped a hand around Sam's head, pulling him closer.

Sam shoved Dean onto his back, straddling his hips and running his hands over Dean's chest. Ignored the word _brother_ bouncing around in the back of his mind, until he didn't care. He let it out in the open and decided right there that it didn't matter. Not with their lives, not when society fucking _owed_ them something, and if they had to keep it a secret? Fine.

He didn't care.

“Sammy,” Dean murmured. He slid a hand into Sam’s hair. Sam leaned into the contact, shivered with relief because the touch was _welcome._ “Hey. Get outta your head. C'mere.”

He tugged and Sam went willingly, laying himself over Dean and burying his face in his throat.

“What do you need?” Dean asked.

Sam just shook his head and reached down to tug at Dean's boxers, keeping his aching hand curled safely between them. They struggled through getting their underwear off, Sam rolling briefly away to let Dean move while he struggled one-handed with his own, straddling Dean’s thighs once the clothing was gone. Sam was only half-hard, but Dean's cock was curved up against his belly. It made Sam wonder how long he'd been thinking about this.

“Here.” Dean reached up and tapped a finger against Sam's mouth. He opened willingly, letting Dean rub over his tongue, letting _Dean_ sink into him where there had only been the creature.

“Tell me if you... just tell me,” Dean muttered, and then he slid his slicked finger from Sam's mouth and pressed it to his hole.

“Oh fuck, please,” Sam gasped.

His cock twitched and hardened further as Dean worked the tip of his finger inside. Sam canted his hips, trying to take more than Dean seemed willing to give, wanted to take it _all_ because in that moment he didn’t feel sick. Dean shushed him, brought their foreheads together as he eased a little further inside.

“More,” Sam groaned, grinding back on Dean's hand, but Dean shook his head.

“Not without lube,” Dean said firmly.

Sam whined. He kissed Dean, open-mouthed and filthy, pressing him down into the pillow and thrilling in the surprised moan Dean released.

“Come on.” Sam whispered against Dean’s lips. He thrust back onto his hand again. “Please.”

“Not without lube,” Dean repeated, but he drew his finger out and shoved it back in, giving just enough.

“Then kiss me again,” Sam demanded, and Dean did. Got a hand fisted in his hair, pulled him down and slipped his tongue inside. Sam flinched but Dean's was thicker, nowhere near as fluid or strong as the creature's, and after a moment he relaxed into it with relief.

Dean left his eyes open and tightened his hand in Sam’s hair. _I love you, this is okay._

Sam stared into them until he couldn't stand the intensity and let his eyes slip closed.

They came like that, Dean still thrusting with that one finger, rubbing over Sam's prostate every so often until Sam had to tear his mouth away to scream. He threw his head back, hips stuttering, injured hand slapped flat against Dean’s chest as he briefly lost the pain in the rush of his orgasm. The answering snarl and surge of Dean’s hips beneath him was reassuring. _Human._

Shaking, Sam clapped a hand around Dean’s shoulder and stared determinedly into his eyes.

When Dean gripped him back and returned the stare, unblinking, Sam knew Dean understood him.

_I love you. I won’t leave._

~

It was still dark when Sam woke. His face was tucked in against Dean's chest, and he could feel the vibration of speech before he heard the actual, quiet words tumbling from Dean's lips.

“—ed to try, you know. I'd go out with chicks, even took out a guy once who kinda looked like you. Same stupid hair. Didn't make any difference. But every time I went to Stanford, you looked so damn happy. Couldn't bring myself to say hi even, didn't want...” Dean sighed.

Sam tipped his head back. “I saw you once.”

Dean didn't look at all surprised that Sam was awake. He just winced, or maybe he smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think it was my second year. I was heading out for some coffee and I saw you across the street. You were under a tree and you kept fiddling with the amulet.” Sam reached up and took the little necklace between his fingers, rolling a thumb carefully over the horns. “You know I didn’t leave because of you, right? I left because of Dad, and because I didn't want to hunt. I used to think about begging you to come with me. I thought about it again when I saw you, thought about running over there and just hauling you up to my apartment and trapping you there, somehow.”

Sam chuckled; like it was possible to trap Dean.

His brother laughed, too. A soft laugh, shake of his head, the kind of grin that made the crinkles at the corners of his eyes go deep. _I'd have let you, Sammy._

“Why didn't you?” He said instead.

“You were too loyal to Dad,” Sam said, shrugging one shoulder. “I think you would have tried. But you would have disappeared for hunts whenever he was close enough, and at the time it would have driven me crazy. With my luck you would have gone on a hunt right around finals and I would have failed everything.” They both huffed another soft laugh even as Sam wrapped a hand firmly around Dean's bicep, and Dean curled fingers into his hair. “It was easier if you weren't there at all. It... I dunno, ached, but it would have been worse the other way.”

He didn't tell Dean that it was easier when Jess was there, that he'd loved her just as much as he loved Dean, if in a different way. It never negated the ache, but it did make it so much more manageable. He'd felt like he could be okay when she was there.

Now, he was pretty sure he'd never be okay again. But that was all right, so long as he had Dean.

“Tell me what it took,” Sam blurted. “I came in once and you were staring at the bed. You said something happened there.”

Dean was silent. Sam watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. His fingers carded through Sam's hair and he chuckled suddenly, pressing a kiss where his fingers had been.

“Guess it doesn't matter now,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” Sam poked him with the amulet he was still holding, grinning when Dean yelped at the sharp horns poking into his skin.

“Okay, okay!” Dean batted him away, snatching the amulet back and holding it in a protective fist. “It took a lot of shit. I couldn't remember the first gun Dad ever gave me, but I could remember everything leading up to it. I couldn't remember holding you when the house was burning down, but I remembered Dad yelling at me to get you out. And I knew there was supposed to be something there, but I couldn't... I dunno, it was like I kept walking around in circles in my head, like if I stared long enough it would come back. There was other stuff, but that one... um. The bed? You were...”

Dean sighed heavily. He shifted, trying to turn his gaze away. “You were fourteen. Passed out cold from playing soccer or somethin’, I don't remember. Dad was on a supply run and I was on the other bed, trying to watch TV, but I kept looking at you. You were all sweaty when you came in and your hair dried funny, kinda stuck up all over the place. It kept making me laugh. I got up at some point and I swear I just meant to mess with your hair some more, but I ended up really close and I just...”

He winced again and Sam started laughing because he knew, he _knew_ what Dean had done and it explained so much, so damn much.

“You kissed me.” Sam grinned. Dean glared at him and Sam surged up to kiss it off his face because he could, and it was terrifying and wrong and he didn't care. “That was right around when the dreams started.”

“Dreams?”

Sam nodded. “I have dreams about being kissed, sometimes. But they're always kinda vague, I can't see a face or anything. You did it more than once, didn't you?”

Dean nodded. His head was ducked now, cheeks flushed. “Kept trying to just stick to your hair or forehead, but I kept... you know.” He waved a hand at Sam's mouth, rolling his eyes when Sam playfully bit one of his fingers. _I think you're cute, but I refuse to admit it._

“How long have we been heading this way?” Sam wondered. Didn't even mean to say it out loud.

Dean shrugged. He glanced towards the dark window and settled back down into his pillow. Avoiding the situation with sleep.

“You're gonna freak later, aren't you?” Sam sighed.

“Maybe.” Dean closed his eyes. “Not promising anything. Might not.” He paused, then asked softly, “You?”

Sam laid his head back down on the pillow. He tipped forward so their foreheads were just touching. “Probably not,” he said quietly. “It kinda makes sense, doesn't it? We're stuck in the life, and we're all we've got.”

Dean didn't say anything, didn't even open his eyes. But he did slide his hand back into Sam's hair, and it was enough to soothe Sam back into sleep.

~

Sam had nightmares about it that night, about that fucking tongue inside him and the gut-clenching illness that followed. He woke up with the word “no” spilling over his lips, but Dean was there, pressing naked and warm and familiar against his back, wrapping his arms tight around him and promising it was gone, it was just Dean. He kissed Sam, his throat and his shoulder and the corner of his mouth, and when Sam murmured, “No,” just to check, just to be sure, Dean immediately backed off until Sam burrowed into him again, relief washing over him in waves.

They talked for a while, quietly, as the sun edged its way above the horizon. Dean had heard everything Sam told him while he was under the creature’s influence, but he wanted to know more. What it was, how it had fed—he kept picking at it even when Sam told him there was no way they’d ever know what exactly it had been. He only stopped when Sam grew too quiet, pressed a kiss to his hair and muttered embarrassed apologies.

Sam let himself be withdrawn as they got dressed. Dean brought him coffee from the tiny machine in the room. He made sure Sam could see him before he'd put a hand on his shoulder, or his neck, or in his hair. Scrubbing away the sense of the creature in all the places it had touched him.

They were both quiet while they collected the towels, except when Dean let out a surprised grunt—the black blood had disappeared, leaving only the dark red drops from Sam’s hand. Sam shrugged; maybe it had something to do with the fact that it hadn’t started out physical. The explanation barely went over with Dean, but he resisted poking at it this time.

He didn't push for Sam to speak when they got into the Impala. Sam felt like he'd spilled out all his words last night, and he was grateful, so incredibly grateful that Dean was letting him deal with this in his own way.

When they pulled off the road in an isolated spot to burn the body, it was gone. No blood, nothing, not even a stain left behind on the blanket, just like the towels and carpet.

“You don’t think?” Dean started, but Sam shook his head. It was gone, he knew it in a way that he suspected came from having been connected with it so thoroughly.

It still took several assurances that they would watch for any signs of the creature before he finally got Dean back on the road.

They were a hundred and ten miles out of Povel when Sam murmured, “I felt sorry for it.”

Beyond Dean's hands tightening just a fraction on the wheel, he didn't react beyond a calm, “What?”

“The thing, whatever it was. It was alone. It... I dunno, sometimes I caught glimpses of its kind when it... yeah. It was feeding on people because it was desperate.”

A muscle in Dean's jaw ticked, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I'm not saying I forgive it for what it did,” Sam said tightly. “But I'm not even sure it understood. Its feelings were different. I’ll never be sorry for killing it because it saved you, and it saved everyone else in that town, and maybe... I dunno, maybe it's better. It’s not alone anymore.”

Sam turned away, stared out the window. He'd run out of words again. His throat felt tight.

“Hey.”

Sam turned to look at Dean, who was holding his hand out, palm up. He wiggled his fingers.

“Really?” Sam murmured, surprised.

“Don't talk about it,” Dean grumbled. “Just do it.”

Sam took Dean's hand.

When Dean pulled it up to plant a firm kiss to the back of it, Sam let himself smile.

“Don't regret it,” Dean said. “Long as you don't.”

Sam shook his head. Dean nodded once and tucked their hands down against his thigh.

~

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Povel is based on Powell, Wyoming. I lived there for almost three years while I was in college, and it just seemed like the perfect setting for this fic. "Top Choice Motel" is based on an actual motel in Powell, if you ever go there you will know which one it is. Just. Don't check in there. Unless it has new owners now, then maybe it's okay.


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